Everything Ends

Posted on Mon Jan 18th, 2021 @ 4:07am by Lieutenant Bardan Dunne M.D.
Edited on on Mon Jan 18th, 2021 @ 4:17am

1,150 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Into the Unknown
Location: Small Cafe on the Promenade

[ON]

The waitress with the graying curls smiled but he could see how the smile didn't quite reach her faded blue eyes. She asked where he was headed and when he said, 'out there', she nodded, sadness wrapped around her like a funeral shroud. "So was I, not too long ago," she said. "My daughter was a colonist. I was going to join them." Her eyes lit for a moment, banked fires flaring to momentary life, as memories stirred. "So many plans. And grandbabies."

"What happened," Bardan asked gently. The restaurant was small with a seating area fenced off from the flow of traffic along the promenade by a few potted plants; he had chosen a corner table where he sat, a wrapped package on the floor beside him, waiting for an old friend to arrive.

"Explosion," she said as she fussed with the place settings. "No survivors. Heard the day my transport arrived. I just ... stopped. Got a job here and a place to sleep." She shrugged slightly but it seemed more of a warding-gesture to him. "Nothing to go back to and nothing to go toward. It's all gone."

"I'm so very sorry to hear that," Bardan said. His eyes were gray today, the color of gathering clouds before a storm, reflecting the sadness he felt. He was El-Aurian and sadness was something he well understood. "Have you thought of colonizing ... as a way to honor her?"

"I have," she said but there was a finality to the way she spoke that brought to mind doors slamming shut. He thought it sad that her life would end this way and hoped that something would happen to change that. "I'll get your coffee."

Bardan sat, watching her shuffle away, shoulders rounded against the pain, and sighed.

"Some things never do change," a man said. He was tall and rail-thin, with the posture you'd associate with career military, and a shock of white hair and a face that had somehow turned into a latticework of lines that almost looked like fissures. He grinned cheerfully as he saw Bardan's expression. "Don't look so surprised, my friend," he said as he slid into the opposite seat. "We've known each other for nearly twenty years and I wasn't a young man when we met. Age catches us all eventually."

"That wasn't why I was surprised," Bardan said, his smile turning a tad sly. "It's just you're on time. Seems to me that you were late for your wedding, the birth of ... let's see ... all four of your children ... and ..."

Michael threw up his hands, chuckling, as he answered. "Alright, doc, you have a point and one that my wife has made on more than one occasion, I might add. She said to send you her love. She wanted to be here but there were matters needing attendance back on Earth. She's getting the house ready and my oldest is expecting our first grandchild. You couldn't pry her away."

The waitress returned, mask firmly in place, with two mugs of Raktajino and a plate of lemon slices. "Anything else I can get you," she asked.

"A plate of cookies," Michael said at once. "Doesn't matter what kind. Just something sweet, if you don't mind."

"Coming right up, Sir," she said and scurried away. It happened that way sometimes when the story was a painful one.

"What's up with her," Michael asked as he took a cautious sip of his coffee and hummed his appreciation. "Oh, that's good."

"She was traveling to join her daughter, a colonist, but something happened. The family died and she just ... stopped traveling. She's stuck." Bardan shook his head. "She's not ready to pick up the threads of her life again, I think."

Michael nodded and the two men shared a look. Nearly twenty years in service to Starfleet; between them, they had thousands of stories. Some shared, some just remembered. Sometimes it seemed as though Bardan's mind was an archive in which the history of the people he'd encountered was enshrined forever. Privately, Michael was glad for his own that recalled the important things but let the details go. And gladder still, for his retirement. He might envy Bardan a body that didn't seem to age or collect the aches and pains that his own did but he didn't envy him the weight of the years he had yet to go.

A moment passed, the weight of the woman's grief lay between them and then dissipated in the warmth of friendship. "So," he asked, "did you bring it?"

"Of course," Bardan said as he leaned down to retrieve the package. It was gaudily wrapped, meant to be ostentatious, with shiny paper and a huge bow crusted with glitter. "I'm going to get it back, you know."

"Worked darn hard to get this," Michael said as he pulled the package in, feigning a possessive air, "and I'll want every bit as much proof as you demanded from me. If you ever want to see it again." He stroked the side of the package and purred. "Welcome home. Got a spot in my office all picked out for you."

Bardan laughed. "Just going to hurt all the more when I wrest it away, Michael. You know how I love a challenge."

"Hey, so does Maggie," Michael retorted. "Bless her heart."

The waitress returned with the cookies, some kind of shortbread, and the conversation turned to other matters. Michael would be heading to Earth while he would be heading onto his next assignment aboard the Ontario. He was way too young to be retiring, he knew that, but the thought did occur to him that he might teach for a few years on Earth ... retiring without retiring. Plan a new adventure. Idle thoughts really. He wasn't ready; the divide between them had grown since the last time they spoke. Michael was ready to step away from the work and the adventure. He craved home and hearth in a way that Bardan didn't. They talked for two hours and then it was time to go. Never easy for Bardan, letting go.

"Everything ends," Michael said as he rose to his feet, slower now than when they'd first met. Bardan noticed such things. "The thing you have to remember is, endings are also beginnings. So stop being sad and don't forget about Thanksgiving, eh?"

They hugged the way good friends did and neither one said good-bye. Somehow that made it easier and parted at the entrance to the docking ring. Michael's transport was on one end, his on the other. "I hate endings," Bardan whispered as he watched his friend walk away, noticed how the limp became more pronounced, and shook his head. The man always did try to hide the worst of his pain. "But some things, never change."

[OFF]

A post by:

Lieutenant Bardan Dunne, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
USS Ontario

 

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